Labors: GreyToBlack Ops
by Marco A. Salazar
Summary: Meet "Lt." Roger Hackett. Enjoy the ride. A multi-crossover.


=LABORS: GREY-To-BLACK OPS: The trailer

-Caption: For you who like multicrossover fics…

-Scene: A magnified eye looking 'at you'.

-…You're about to get…

-The eye is framed in a circular 'blackness'.

-…Extremely familiar…

-We see the 'blackness' is a scope attached to a rifle.

-…With the edge…

-The camera is looking down the rifle's barrel.

-…Of your seat.

-The barrel lights up with a shot, and a bullet comes towards the camera, obscuring it.

COMING SOON.

**LABORS: GREY-TO-BLACK OPS (Working Title. I accept any suggestions).**

A Multi-Verse Fanfic by Marco A. Salazar M.

**DISCLAIMER:** Based on characters and situations owned by other people and companies, among them:

The Anime/Manga/Comics series "Ranma ½", "Bubblegum Crisis", "Hellsing", "Neon Genesis Evangelion", "Gundam Wing", "Yu Yu Hakusho", "Inu Yasha", "Gold Digger", "Ninja High School" and others are property of: Viz, Dark Horse Comics, GAINAX, GONZO, Sunshine, Antartic Press, and others.

The RPGs "Aberrant", "Trinity", "CyberPunk 2020", "Bubblegum Crisis", "D20 Modern (and "Urban Arcana")", "Dungeons and Dragons" "Big Eyes, Small Mouth", "RIFTS", "Judge Dredd", "Apocalypse: 2089" are property of White Wolf, WOTC, R. Talsorian Games, Palladium Books, Mongoose Publishing, Guardians of Order and others.

All characters, situations and crossovers created for fanfics (mentioned when required, among them "The Great Crossover Crisis", "The Beast Within", "Cat Fist Fury", the "Labor" series, "Mirrors Multiplied", "Bubblegum Avatar", "Just Won't Die", "The Bubblegum Zone" ) are property of their own authors, including: Gregg Sharp, Jared Ornstead, Scott K. Jamison, Jeffrey 'OneShot' Wong, Hung Nguyen, Craig A. Reed, Jr., Bert Van Vliet, and other FF.Net authors. Thanks to all of those who gave me permission, and those who didn't, I'll ask later.

As a special note, I have to say that I had to take some "creative license" with some stuff, so any fanfics and author-created characters mentioned must not be taken as THEIR canon. Note this as an "alternate megaverse" of sorts. Any author that reads this is free to talk back. Take note that this is my first fic.

BTW, "abc" is talking,/abc/ are thoughts.

**-CHAPTER ONE: All In A Days's Work…**

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**_Part One-Raid_**

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**_"I am not their judge. I am their judgment. I am their executioner."_**

**_-Mack Bolan._**

It was a clear, nice night in Las Vegas, with a very low index of CO2 on the air and a cool breeze coming from the north. At this hour, only the addicts, the high rollers, the perverts and the maniacs were awake. But on a small room on a fleabag hotel on the suburbs of the city, someone other than the above was about to move.

On the rickety wreck of a bed in that dirt-poor room, a man moved from side to side, sweat covering his face and the covers, muttering stuff in his sleep. Names, phrases, facts, all died before having being truly formed on his lips. But thru all of this, he saw a thing that, for him, was more horrible than any nightmare.

_---The same scene played in his head, over and over again, the scene that would haunt him for the rest of his life._

_He had kneeled in front of her, showing her the small, measly diamond ring that he had bought earlier, her eyes filling with a bright light. He was partly thru his proposal, when that elf and his broads entered the room. Then it all turned red._

_Her torture, her screams of agony, pleading to the elf to kill her and end the pain.__ And when he was done, and she lay on the ground dead, they turned on him. _

_And then the sword, the bullets, the blood…---_

"NO!!!", he yelled, rising from the bed, eyes scanning left and right for enemies that weren't there. Haven't been, and maybe would never be. Not that it actually was a comfort.

/It was a dream… It was a dream…/, he thought again and again, but it still felt real.

The phone on the nightstand, shrill orange and smelling of puke, rang. His left arm reached for the handset. He picked it up and said, without a 'hello':

"Grey, where are the guns coming in?"

On the other side of the line, Grey L. Shard, RRO agent and sometimes poor soul, raised an eyebrow. "How'd you know I would call?", he inquired.

Roger stayed silent. After a moment, Grey just sighed and said:

"Okay, iceman, the weapons are at McCarran Airfield, Hangar 27-A. The target's dummy corp's name is "Kohlinjar Exports", out of Egypt. Three guesses as to which species is running the show."

"Felinar. Kyrn sub-species that revere Bastet and practice the Neko-Ken.", Roger replied effortlessly.

"Seems you've done your homework. Just wanted to make sure you knew. So, I guess you're gonna back out then, right, L.T.?"

"They're all guilty of a hundred charges of illegal weapons possession and smuggling. They're as good as dead."

"Okay, man. It's your funeral.", Grey said with some anger in his voice.

"No problem on that detail. I'm looking forward to it.", Roger said, hanging on.

A few hours later, Roger was parking his 'temporary wheels' behind a small ridge. The car was a very beat-up, 5-year-old Chevy Caprice he'd gotten from a former 'high-roller'.

He went to the trunk, opened it, and pulled out the large duffel bag inside. It gave up military webbing, its many pockets full of ammo magazines, explosives, knives and miscellaneous stuff. An armored vest-made of Kevlar with metallic stress plates- went beneath it. Then he strapped on his weapons.

A Colt 2011 Automatic Pistol went into a hip holster, and a Beretta 92 went into a shoulder holster. A little OD plastic tube-that of a LAW- dangled from his shoulder from a strap. Then he grabbed his rifle.

It was a Stoner M22, a lightweight assault weapon originally produced by Cadillac Gage, capable of delivering over 1,000 rounds of 5.56 NATO ammo per minute. It had an assault drum with 200 rounds, certainly enough for this mission. Like the other two small arms, it looked like it had gone thru a number of modifications.

Another-and very important-other item was grabbed last, a small backpack which he dangled from his other shoulder.

He marched thru the low hills straight towards the airfield's perimeter, but stopped and ducked before going over the last one. He brought out a pair of binoculars from a pocket, and scanned the tarmac. No patrolling tigers. Good. No weretiger-like people walking around. Good.

"What? You've got IR vision, cat-like senses, ki claws, big effin' deal! You're still scum.", he muttered under his breath.

The zoomed-in low-light view shown hangar 27-A in all its glory. A private jet-Lear or Gulfstream, he didn't knew. It had a needle-like profile- stood in front, and a small ground crew was loading it with crates. They moved with the grace of a big, bad cat, and all had lumps under the overalls.

"All Felinar. All armed. Semi-autos, maybe.", Roger said to no-one, continuing to scan.

A pair of Felinar- bosses, maybe. They've got the looks- overlooked the op from the door.

"No guns. Must be good with the NK, or at least act like it.-Roger said, putting the binoculars away-Fragged morons."

If they were good in the Art-and he wasn't thinking otherwise- the numbers would be small. He would have 10, 13 seconds, at most.

"And that's if they don't move for a moment. Anyway, it's gonna be fast."

He reached for the tube, doing his damnedest to not show himself over the hilltop. He pulled the pins to expand the tube, locked the safeties. Then he took a deep breath and said:

"Okay, let's go."

He trotted towards the fence in a half-crouched position, drawing a pair of wire cutters as he came close. They went thru the fence like it was nothing.

"Diktoed cutters. Good for any party.", he mumbled as a 'thank you' to their designer.

A tiny hole-enough for him to crawl thru- was cut, and he crawled into the tarmac. It would have been good…

…hadn't one of the Felinar looked his way. His eyes locked with the Felinar's for a moment, and it tried to holler. It didn't.

Roger's Diktoed wire cutters flew from his left hand as accurate as an arrow, straight and true, faster that any eye could follow, and a split second later they stuck out from its throat.

The other Felinar went for their guns, and Roger sent caution to Hell. He dropped on one knee, launcher tube over a shoulder, and with the barest of aimings he pressed the firing button.

The little anti-armor rocket flew from the launcher like a comet towards the Gulfstream, and punched right thru it-a scream signaling someone's death. A tenth of a second later, a massive explosion, a little piece of Hell, blossomed as the fuel went.

The blast's shockwave flung Roger off his feet, deafened him thru the earplugs he wore, and he could swear that a piece of the jet almost hit him, but it was all secondary. The "ground crew" was nothing but ashes now, and that only left the two big cats.

Without losing any time, Roger unslung the Stoner and opened fire, the 5.56mm slugs cutting the stunned Felinar's feet right from under them. They fell, screaming, yowling, hollering insults in a language or two, that "we're the invincible cat-people, rah-rah" attitude of theirs still on.  
Roger stood up, pulled out his Colt and shot one in the head. THAT stopped the attitude. He only needed one alive, as well.

The sole remaining Felinar looked on in horror at the human as he came close, pistol and rifle at hand, a stony look on his face. Roger stopped by the stuttering Felinar, bent down and put the Colt's muzzle aganist his forehead. Then he spoke, in a low voice that felt like something out of the grave and shook whatever he had left of dignity:

"¿Where are the guns?"

"¿Huh? ¿What did you said?", the Felinar asked. Roger fired the Colt straight into its hand, making it scream.

"¿Where are the guns?", he asked again, the voice a little harder.

The Felinar pointed inside the hangar with a shaking (and shot-thru) hand.

"Good", Roger said, walking inside. The Felinar looked on with wide eyes, then started to crawl away.

"No one pays me for this", it said in a slurred voice.

Roger propped the Stoner against a crate and looked around. There were machine guns, bombs and rifles, all kinds of ammo from all five continents. Somebody else-Roger could mention a few-might have felt giddy with all this firepower, but he didn't. Not with what he knew.

Still, it would be a shame to let it ALL go to waste.

He opened a small crate and looked inside. It was a "mixed bag" of sorts, full of explosives, automatics and ammo. He even noted a land mine in there.

"Good enough", he said, putting it next to the Stoner. He turned to give a last glimpse at the warehouse.

"Now, let's blow the shit off this place."

Getting off the backpack, he opened it to expose the insides. The "backpack" was a satchel charge, full of C4 and Semtex, with a small nondescript silver canister in its middle.

The canister had a small radioactive symbol.

Roger placed the charge over the biggest explosives crate he could find, pulled a tiny pin from its inners, and ran.

About 25 meters into his run, he skidded to a stop. The Felinar-for blood loss, exhaustion or whatever-lay unconscious on the ground.

"Shit", he muttered, grabbing the Felinar's collar and dragging him as fast as he could. Any second now…

If the explosion of the private jet was the party starter, then the explosion of the hangar was the definite closer: it was massive, as if Earth had opened up for a moment and let a volcano erupt in mid-field. The shockwave threw Roger off his feet and sent the Felinar sprawling, the noise was outright deafening, and the brightness of it could only be compared to an A-Bomb. The smoke took the familiar shape of the mushroom, as well, a small token to the power behind it.

Roger stood up and righted himself, and when he stopped looking like hell, hobbled towards the Felinar, whose badly beaten up body lay a few feet away. It had now waken up, and again looked in sheer horror at the man, and just managed to mutter out, which must have been hard, because its jaw was dislocated:

"¿What...the fuck... are you?"

"That I won't tell you, and I think you wouldn't care-Roger said in his hard voice-But you better make this clear on your boss: if he ever-EVER- tries to sell a gun again, I'm gonna hunt him down and kill him. You tell him that."

"Why…Why…?"

"Didn't that "sixth sense" fired up?. Dunno myself-Roger shrugged-Not that I'm complaining."

"¿And who are you? My Boss will see to it that you die, you bastard.", the Felinar said. Its jaw was back in place, whoa.

"Call me 'Bastard', if you please. And as for your boss coming to get me, I hope so-Roger grinned maniacally at that, a move calculated to make him overestimate-I EXPECT so."

Said that, Roger picked up his stuff and walked away, disappearing in between the smoke and grime. Again, this was calculated. Better to leave the guy guessing who he was. They always guessed wrong.

Some time later, at 4:00 A.M., the Chevy Caprice crossed the Nevada state border, heading towards Arizona. Roger drove on the slowest lane, letting time-and other, more rage-prone drivers-pass by. This was time to reflect, to get his thoughts in order. A grim, stony face settled on his head for a moment.

/Felinar weapons store destroyed, with maybe some big-wig deputy to Pantheron to go along. It wasn't different from raiding any other place-for Felinar, they were poorly combat-experienced. Freakin' rookies, didn't knew what to do. I did.

Those Crime lab guys are gonna have a coronary when they search the place-I know they might, my Vegas trips are always this noisy.

Took some weapons-one crate w/some C4, Semtex, a land mine, automatic weapons. I have to check their quality, so I might not have gotten  a good reward. Gotta keep stocked, this kind of fight you don't win with a half-full depot.

Maybe I can go on and rechamber a pair of those guns to MDC, who knows?. I don't use that kinda ammo a lot, but it could come in handy…

This was somewhat of a power breakfast-low risk, high payoff. The few illegal-business-managing Felinar got a big-ass blow, I've kept some weapons away from terrorists and drug dealers. Considering that, I have no regrets./

Taking a deep breath and blinking the sleepiness off, he said in a loud voice:

"Computer awake."

The computer was a tiny gizmo clipped to the dashboard, appearing to be a very advanced PDA. At the command, its tiny screen turned on.

"Display mission log, mark mission 23107p2 as "completed". Open comm. Shard, Grey."

The computer displayed for a moment a text file-which it marked "Completed"-before it turned to a video feed. On it, the face of a Boomer-like being (if only a little bit nastier-looking), appeared.

"Hello?", he said.

"Shard? It's me, Hackett. Just wanted to tell you that the raid went well.", he said.

The cyborg composed himself and said in a clearer voice:

"It went? Good. Seems that info I got really was on the money."

"Not enough-Roger said, a little, almost unnoted hardness on his voice-You told me that Shinkara was going to be there. Personally. You missed that one."

Shard almost gulped at the way Roger stared at him, but composed himself.

"In any case, I'm sure he'll receive some flak over this soon, and you just destroyed 50 million worth of weapons, so

you must be in the right track, right?"

"He's their enforcer. Fifty mil he'll regain with a flick of the wrist.", he said, then added  "But I hope that the noise over this makes people be afraid of him."

Shard looked him funny for a moment, then said:

"In any case, I've got a new mission for you, "Lieutenant". I'll send the file after hanging up. –He looked slightly more serious now-It's for the Chicago P.D."

"I'm not a bounty hunter, or something."

"That's the case. They want this lady dead. Again." He hung up.

"Again??", Roger said. "Download and print."

A small printer on the passenger seat started to work, and Roger noted the lady's picture.

It was a coroner's picture of some blond gal who got shot in the head. She had this maniacal look on her face, marred by the hole on the forehead. The tag said:

"Dorman, Bonnie".

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**_Part Two-Setup_**

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**_"She's a natural-born sadist… a regular Ms. Jack The Ripper!"_**

**_-Det. Roy Coleman, "Gunsmith Cats: Bonnie and _****_Clyde_****_"._**

Flight 8980, coming from Arizona, arrived at Chicago at 11:15 A.M., tardy because of turbulence, traffic and a paranoid controller.

It was a Learjet Model 45, painted blue. Its tail had the insignia of some big-deal corporation, and as far as the world cared, it was just one more exec bluffing it out and using 3900 bucks' worth of gas to get to a golf match.

In reality, the sole passenger of said plane had nothing of corporate on him. Unless this were the 2030's and the corporation was Genom, which was neither.

Roger Hackett spent the flight checking the crate of firearms that he had "acquired" at McCarran and cleaning those he used. The man was methodical in his procedures, a thing that actually was a stark contrast to the fact he was hearing music by AC/DC. The pilot found it slightly funny that the song at the moment was "Highway to Hell".

Roger looked over his weapons again- the Stoner, the Colt, the Beretta -, and picked the Colt up. Like its name said, it had been produced (or would be produced) in 2011, on Colt Firearms' celebration of the gun's 100 years. The lines were classic Colt, no changes there.

The change, however, was in the load. The Colt 2011 used caseless .45 ACP ammo, 12 in the same clip that took 7 cased, a venerable combat load itself. This one also had been modified to fire High Velocity (or HV) ammo, capable of flying at speeds lots of times faster that a standard bullet, piercing thru flesh and body armors with equal ease.

He chuckled for a moment, thinking back to the first time he'd heard of them, what the man had said:

/'An HV bullet will ALWAYS beat Kung Fu…'/

"Rog?- the pilot said to the back, snapping Roger out of his fugue -Come here a moment, man."

Roger shoved all of the guns inside the crate, entered the cockpit and sat down, massaging the back of his neck. He yawned.

"Where are we?", he said in a tired voice. Not sleepy, the pilot noted. No sleep.

/¿What the HELL is this man?/, the pilot noted, also glancing at Roger's features. Somewhere between plain and handsome, the man reminded the pilot of that character from "Yu Yu Hakusho", his niece's fave, with that pair of brown eyes and black hair that was slicked back and cut sharp. Of course, the 5 o'clock shadow and dark glasses completely screwed the "good looking" part, but enhanced the "nasty" one.

"We landed, man, didn't you noted?", the pilot said. Roger looked into his eyes.

"No, I didn't", he just said.

"The car's outside, by Gate 13. Happy hunting.", the pilot said. Roger went to the back and pulled another gun- a very big one, the pilot noted -, which he shoved in a waist holster.

"Yeah, yeah. Don't wait for me, man. I'm going back home on my own devices.", Roger said, going for the door, "Tell Grey to get ready for my debriefing."

As he walked down the stairs, Roger said:

"And, man?"

"Yeah?", said the pilot.

"This better be the last damn time you use Genom for a cover, you got me?"

"Okay.", the pilot said.

Roger's new loaner was a perfect replica of the car his target would be going after: a 1959 Shelby Cobra, cobalt blue in color. A nice car, Roger could understand why that girl used it.

Pity than that maniac was on the loose. That way, he might have had some time to check the girl out.

It was barely an hour and a half since he had walked out of the plane, and all he had been doing was move: drive to the police station, walk to the morgue, walk around the station as he heard his briefing, walk out, and now drive all over the damn city.

The briefing had been quick, but serious: his target-Ms. Dorman- has been shot and killed in self-defense by bounty hunter Rally Vincent a few weeks ago. Apparently Dorman has been holding a grudge on Vincent over a car accident-the detective has been dodgy about the reasons of it-in which she lost her legs. She also lost her right thumb on the accident, apparently.

Dorman escaped the hospital she had been interned in, and started to harass Vincent. A quick gun battle later, Dorman and her brother were on their way to the morgue, a guard was missing a hand, and about 250,000 dollars were missing.

Of course, the part where the detective was completely bugging out was on what happened a few hours ago: without ANY warning at all, Dorman's corpse just stood up, took a coroner hostage, and made him carry her to a car. The coroner, of course, was killed the second he ended his purpose.

A quick pass by the evidence locker shown why the detective was nervous. Dorman's prosthetic legs were a synonym to the word "fire arms". Her left leg had a 12-gauge shotgun adapted to it, and the right one had a sub-machine gun and an anti-personnel mine hidden on its foot. A special glove for her right hand had a fake thumb-with a garrote attached to it. The brief description he got of her personality was:

"A Ms. Jack-the-Ripper".

The Chicago Police Department wanted nothing to do with this-Dorman was dead and out of their responsibility. The Goddess Relief Office wanted nothing to do with this-Dorman was to be dealt by some one else than a goddess.

Which, of course, left him.

And now, he was boring himself by believing that that bitch was just going to run by his side any second now, and try to shoot him. Yeah, right, like that was going to happen.

/Well, it sounded like a good idea at the time/, he thought. Why couldn't he just send this stupid idea up…..

At that moment, one of the other cars on his lane- a Mach-1, it seemed -swerved maniacally out of the way, and made a   
U-turn. All the other cars swerved away, crashing against each other and the sides of the road.

The Mach-1 had that bitch at the wheel, a hole on her forehead laced with caked blood, and a grin on her face that would have scared Michael Myers.

"Oh, shit!!!", Roger yelled, slamming on the breaks. The damned broad just HAD to be nearby!!!

He slammed the car in reverse, and stepped on it. The Shelby answered with a very high-pitched squeal, as its wheels sought traction, then shot off. All the cars swerved away, as the Cobra shot their way.

/Where is she…?/, Roger thought. He chanced looking back forward for a moment.

The damned broad was aiming a gun at him! A freaking handcannon, it seemed. A Desert Eagle, caliber unknown.

"FUCK!", he yelled, as she fired. He couldn't dodge in this damned road, too many bystanders.

The Shelby's windshield was shattered by the large slug, which punched into his shoulder. Blood sprayed all over the back seat.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck, FUUUUCKKKKK!", Roger kept yelling, looking back and forth as the Shelby went.

He just needed a crossroad, aaaa crossroad, a BIG CROSSROAD……!!!

/There it is!/, he thought in triumph, noting its conditions. Closed lanes because of a repair, lots of water soaking the asphalt… just as he needed it.

He slowed down the Shelby. Not enough, just kept the broad a little away.

/Just a little closer… a LITTLE CLOSER…./, he thought. She fired at him again, but missed the shot.

His hand snaked towards the gun on his waist. /Come on, come on, come on…/

The Shelby arrived to the intersection, and almost immediately started to lose its grip.

/NOW!!/, he thought, the despair getting to him.

He twisted the wheel to the right with all of his strength, burying the brake pedal. A loud, piercing screech, like that of a scared girl, was heard, as the Shelby's rear made an arc. The Mach-1 crashed violently against the Shelby's passenger side, embedding itself in it. Both Roger and the lady were thrown all over the place, in response to the violent kinetics, none of them prepared.

The Mach-1 kept going, crashing the Shelby with the front of a parked bulldozer. The muscle car was wrecked, but its rival kept going, slowly crushing the Cobra with its advance.

Among all of this chaos, Roger managed to get a grip inside the car and pull out his handgun, which he aimed at Bonnie's face. Both his window and the Mach's windshield were wrecked, there was nothing to protect her.

Her face molded in a mask of violent fury, as she went for her own pistol. Roger didn't gave her the chance.

Roger's pistol- a Desert Eagle, 14mm Malorian in caliber –blared smoke and thunder, its muzzle flash almost touching Bonnie.

The slug, however, did, splattering her head and a good part of her torso all over the inside of the Mach-1. Nerveless limbs let go of the Desert Eagle and the gas pedal, and the Mach-1 stopped its advance.

Roger immediately fired again, destroying what was left of the Shelby's windshield, before climbing out of it. The blaring of sirens in the distance told him that this mission had been accomplished. For good or bad, that he would deal later.

He pulled out of his pocket a tiny item, apparently a rod with a number of microchips and runes all over it, and aimed it in front of him before pushing a button on it. The rod glowed for a moment before a "Sliders"-style wormhole opened a few feet away from Roger. He stashed the rod back inside his pocket before jumping inside the hole, which closed with a thunder-like flash and boom, leaving no evidence it had ever existed.

_Part 3: Arrival and Briefing._

_"…No doubt sampling the dubious pleasures of the city's lowlife culture…", Genom "intellectual asset", "Bubblegum Crisis: Grand Mal"._

The area known as Asgard was- for many people far and wide all over the multiverse –the very definition of heaven: that place you went when you died, and stayed for eternity.

What very few people- those who weren't dead, anyway –knew was that Asgard was as normal as any other city on the world they left behind, its main difference of being the very crossroads of all dimensions that were and would be, and where you could see gods and goddesses of legend on the street.

That was, if you were lucky. Asgard was an apparent combination of 20th-Century New York City and Los Angeles and 21st –Century MegaTokyo, Tokyo 3 and Seattle, cut-and-pasted together in a haphazard fashion. You still had to work in heaven, and even it had bad neighborhoods.

It had its high corporations, based in both skyscrapers and arcologies, it had its own version of Beverly Hills – for said "gods and goddesses of legend" –, and it had its slums..

It was on a small building on one of these slums that Roger appeared in front of. It looked like an old bunker, thick walls of concrete and steel. A holo-neon sign on its roof advertised it as:

"The Street-Skor: Authentic Retro-Feel Seattle Bar! Interpetrations by Priss and the Replicants NIGHTLY!"

The "nightly" kept blinking on and off at an irregular pattern.

Roger walked inside the bar, almost immediately regretting doing so. What you should know about Asgard being in the middle of everything, is that a large number of 'alternate-universe' versions of people were around. At the very least, 60% of the population had a dimensional doppelganger somewhere around. Some of them had the same work, and everything.

Right now, on the scenario, was an alternate version of Priss Asagiri, in no doubt replacing the "normal" Priss that must have been on a job.

She was the one from that "BGC" American comic from some years ago. The suit, the band, the song….

"Excessively noisy, all of it. ¿Don't you think?", someone yelled behind Roger.

"Damned girl should know that they don't give a fuck about her views of Genom. ¿You got any places around? ¿Especially with less noise?", Roger yelled.

"Table 20, back of the store.", the person yelled.

"Okay", Roger yelled, walking to the back. The noise didn't faded for one instant, but at least the floor had stopped shaking.

There was somebody already at the table. He- or "it" –looked like one of the many Boomers around. A 55-C, most probably, Roger couldn't recall every single serial number.

Of course, this Boomer shown some differences. Its color was gunmetal gray, instead of the standard blue. It had additional weapon tubes exposed on its shoulders, the eyes were single-lensed instead of the Boomer's four, and the teeth were more like fangs, made of the same metal as the rest. This was a VX-500 Triax "Manhunter" full conversion, nothing more than a human brain, spine and organs encased in German-manufactured Mega Damage alloys and weaponry.

It signaled Roger to sit down, which he did.

"So, ¿how did the mission went?", the "Boomer" said.

"It went sucky. Damned broad attacked me in the freakin' highway, and I ended up wrecking my car. It's in a construction site by US 30, south-bound."

"¿Is she dead?", the Boomer asked.

"Unless undead can walk with more that their head missing.- Roger said -¿Who was responsible of that bitch anyway, Grey?"

"Just some wannabe voodoo priest. He wanted to resurrect some girls to sale to a cathouse.", Grey said, giving out his version of a chuckle, a strange grating noise "Guess it went wrong. The damned girl shot him a dozen times in the head, and shoved the chicken entrails down what remained of his throat."

Roger said nothing. In any case, the universes of "Gunsmith Cats" didn't had magic practitioners for a reason.

"But I failed the mission, Shard. Completely fucked up."

"¿Is that lady still around?"

"No, but…"

"Then the mission wasn't failed, ¿right?", Grey said, grinning. He drank the last of his beverage and slammed down the glass.

"We got another mission for you, sport. ¿You think you're up to it?", he said.

Roger straightened up almost immediately on his seat. "¿What's the nature of it?", he asked, all business.

"Black op . Author protection. Some man at Florida thought it would be a good thing to think bad about the KS, especially when he wrote an SI about them. He sounded VERY desperate over the phone."

"¿What's my objective?"

"Protect the Author, stop the KS. Simple as that."

"¿What's my prejudice?"

"Extreme. If they kill that guy, they- and a universe –die. If they die, the author can write them back to life.- Grey seemed to grin at that (not that it was noticeable)–Not that we would condone that, of course."

"¿You got any files on the author, the KS?"

Grey opened a small secured space on his chest, and pulled out a small folder. It was also gunmetal gray, with a stamp of some strange tree in the front. The tree was surrounded by some language Roger didn't understood.

"¿You arranged any meeting points with the Author?", Roger asked, all business.

"Yeah. The frontal entry to Church Street Station, Orlando, at dusk. Exactly- Grey looked away for a moment –three hours from now."

"¿You coming?", Roger asked Grey.

"Hell, yeah! I wouldn't miss this for anything.", Grey said enthusiastically.

"Then go to the Quartermaster, ask for a few guns. I'll go talk to her. Meet me here in, say ¿two hours?", Roger said.

"Will do, kid.", Grey said, standing up, "And by the way, ¿what do you think about HER?", he asked, pointing at the version of Priss.

"I'd rather hear "Konya Wa Hurricane", or "Mad Machine". Shit, even the 2040 version sings better.", Roger said.

"Yeah… I thought so, too.", Grey said, and then added "¿You know who you remind me of?"

"Yeah, yeah, I know. Yusuke Urameshi", Roger said tiredly "I've heard them all."__

"Well, in looks, yeah, you remind me of him. But you keep reminding me of either Jethro Gibbs or Horatio Caine."

"¿BOTH of them?", Roger asked incredulous.

"No. You keep switching. It's just that that way you make your 'professional' act, man…- Grey huffed –You shouldn't see those series."

"¿Why not? I once wanted to be a forensic scientist, ¿you knew that?"

"Yeah. And it creeps me out.", Grey said. Roger just grinned.

_Part 4: Nighttime Popping._

_"I'm telling you, it takes serious hardware to tackle them. You gotta fight high-tech with high-tech…", Det. Leon McNichol, "Bubblegum Crisis: Grand Mal."_

Downtown Orlando at nighttime was just like any other 20th-Century city: full of lights and motion. Right now, in this particular part of town, it was quite easy to see that the only motion that was gonna happen would come from the discos and bars located all over the street.

Church Street Station was a stark contrast to this: an old, Wild West-styled train station converted to a mall, located barely a block from the large skyscrapers of the corporations. A good place to go buy, watch the artists, and if you felt like it, party all night long.

However, for one person, who was right now shifting nervously on his seat, the Station meant something else.

It meant a bad choice.

The man- about six feet tall, short dark hair, brown eyes, a high forehead, small-nosed and narrow-chinned –was on a café overlooking Church Street Station's main walk, waiting for the man that- so calmly –he was informed would come.

¿When would the bastard come?

"I heard that", someone said, making the man jump from his seat. He turned to look at the newcomer.

He was a huge blond man, 6'5, almost seven feet tall, the look of a bodybuilder, dressed in a crisp yellow suit.

It took everything the man had to not yell "¡BOOMER!" and run for it. ¿But what would it get him?

"¿You're Reed? ¿Mr. Craig Alan Reed, Jr.?- the tall man said, pulling out a business card –My name is Grey Shard. I came because of the call you did at 3 this afternoon."

Reed looked at the card dumbfounded, then asked:

"¿That was real? ¿You mean that the Goddess Relief Office is real?"

"Yeah, yeah, I'll explain it to you, sir. Just, please, sit down.", Grey said, motioning to sit himself. Reed did also, slowly.

"Well, Mr. Reed, you said so yourself. We're real. But, of course, we keep our secrecy. Wouldn't do to go and answer every call from a wacko who wants to see Belldandy, ¿do we?.", Grey said in a business-like voice, then continued "Now-¡ahem!-I would like you to tell me the nature of your problem."

Reed looked at Grey like he was nuts, and then said:

"What happened goes like this: I wake up this morning, and the computer was gone. The ATM ate my credit card. I almost got run over by a god-damned biker, and some girl yelled that I was a pervert in mid-street."

"Sounds like a bad day."

"Yeah, well, give me a minute, ¿okay?", Reed said, looking distraught, "So, okay I think that too, and arrive at my house, when the phone rings. So well, I answer it.- he took a deep breath –The caller was ME-he had MY voice, and said some stuff only I know-, and says that, because I was the guy who wrote about him becoming a Knight Saber, he was going to have revenge. He said that tonight he was going to come for me, wherever I went."

"So, ¿what do you want us to do?"

"¿What do I want you to do?- Reed said hysterically –¡I want you to protect me, that's what I want you to do!"

Grey looked at Reed with a neutral face, then said:

"Well, Mr. Reed, congratulations. You just got accepted by the Goddess Relief Office as a client. A specialist will be shortly…."

"¿What? ¿'A specialist'? ¿Why can't you send a goddess or something? ¿And what are you?"

"Because, try as we might, we do not have the workforce required to just send a goddess to do every wish. Your problem is with a version of you that became a Knight Saber, we'll send someone who can deal with it. And as for me, I'm just one more office boy.", Grey said, standing up. "Now, as for our fee…"

"¿A fee?", Reed said.

"Yes, a fee.- Grey said. –Now, our fee is simple. We want a favor from you, to be collected at a later date. It will be nothing illegal, nor sexual, and definitely will not be something you can't do. But, once we ask for it, you will NOT ask questions. ¿Do you understand these conditions, Mr. Reed?."

"Yeah… yeah, I get them.- Reed said, clearing his throat- ¿And when will that 'specialist' arrive?"

"When he needs to arrive. For the moment, I would kindly appreciate if you stayed on the premises until your version arrives, then once you see him, walk out. Act natural.- he leaned towards Reed- It's a trap."

"Oh, okay. I got it.", Reed said.

Grey exited the café with a brisk, even pace, and once he was out, he looked around. No one, good.

He raised his hand high and made a "V"-sign, before lowering it and walk away.

A few hours later, Craig Reed, Jr. was still inside the café. He had taken a large amount of coffee and sandwiches, and watched a couple of games to not be kicked out. The tension was getting to him, it was obvious that any second now he would be asked to leave.

/¿Why the hell did I let that guy convince me? ¡I'm such an idiot!"/, Reed thought harshly.

It was then when a light knocking sound came to his ears. And then repeated itself, harder.

Reed didn't wanted to look out the window and see his worst nightmare, but he did. He wanted to see them, in any case.

Right outside the window, larger than life- and yet, no one else in the café noticing them –were the Knight Sabers, numbering five with the black-and-gray suit that stood by the window.

"¿I suppose that you won't just let me walk away, right?", Reed asked. The black suit shook its head no.

Reed sighed, and stood up. After leaving a tip at the table, he walked out.

/Act natural/, the man Shard had said. ¿But how to act natural against something like this?

The hardsuits' helmets turned to look at him as he approached, and he noted bully that the blue one was cracking her knuckles.

"Well, I guess that by now you and I know who we are, and what we want. Only thing I wanna ask you is, ¿what will you do to me?"

"We're gonna do to you what those other Sabers did to VanVliet, kid.", the black suit said.

"You're gonna use me as a target practice for your exercises, ¿huh? Okay.- Reed sighed -¿Where's my Hardsuit?"

"¿What Hardsuit?", the black Saber said.

"You know, the copy Hardsuit of yours, like the one they gave to him."

"We won't give you one.", the white Saber said "unfortunately for you."

"¿Why not?"

"One, any Hardsuits other that the ones we have are a security threat. And two… – the white Saber said, a little amused –We think that VanVliet got off nicely."

"¿What? ¿'Nicely'? He was going to be fuckin' stalked day and night by people of that universe until they felt like it, and you think he got off 'nicely'?"

"Yes. – the pink Saber said –We do."

Reed gulped.

"This is your first exercise, so we'll go nicely.- the green Saber said –You got 20 seconds to run. Starting now."

"¡You can't do this! ¡You'll kill me! ¡It ain't fair!", Reed said.

"Oh, ¿it ain't? Well, guess what. You ain't getting any running time, then.", the blue Saber said. They raised their weapon gauntlets, and Reed could only stare at them in horror.

Then…

"Excuse me, people. ¿Can I know where…? ¡HOLY SHIT!!!!", someone screamed.

The Sabers turned around to lock on to whoever he was (just some random drunk, they noted), as a large object fell in front of Reed with an incredibly noisy "¡CLANG!". The Sabers turned again.

Between them and Reed was a large Boomer, a 55-C with a nastier-looking face. It seemed to be grinning at them, but then again, all Boomers of that model seemed to do so.

"Evening, gentle-women – It said –And man. I'm sorry to say that this man is under the protection of the GRO. Please, stand down your weapons." It gestured as well, waving downwards.

"¿Or what will you do? -the black Saber asked- ¿Call the cavalry?"

"No.- Grey said -I will order my man to attack you."

"That's funny. The Boomer will order someone to attack us.", the blue Saber said, firing her weapon. They would simply tear the thing up, then continue as planned.

Much to their surprise, the railgun spikes bounced off the Boomer's armor with a visible bunch of sparks, like those old "armored car" effects of TV. However, they hearing the damage the wild spikes did nearby made them know that it was for real.

"Last warning. Stand down and walk away, or my man will attack you.", Grey said. He raised his hand.

"This is stupid.- the black Saber said -¡Let's get him!". The knight Sabers raised their weapons as one, aiming at Grey.

Grey dropped his arm before turning towards Reed and hunching over him. The combined might of the Hardsuits' weapons systems ricocheted off the Mega Damage armor with a cacophony of metallic sounds and a shower of sparks, rattling Grey and his client.

Among said cacophony, Reed managed to hear a bunch of loud explosions. No super-tech lasers or railguns, but the sound of a gun going off. He had seen his alternate's suit configuration, it was missing the anti-armor rifle.

So, ¿where were those explosions coming from?

Roger's window of fire was perfect. A view straight down Church Street Station and both its rooftops and the rooftops surrounding it. There was no place to run or hide for them, if they went for their standard motion tactics.

Which is what made heaving his rifle to its location all the most worthy.

His main gun for this op was an Ontario Survival Arms Model-50 Heavy Sniper Rifle, .50 BMG in caliber, bullpup-styled, gas-operated. Its street nickname was "The Widowmaker".

Which was exactly what Roger was aiming for right now. He had been here from about an hour before Shard had walked inside the café to meet with Reed, and had seen both of Shard's signals thru the sniper scope. Now, as the plan went, he would provide cover for Shard as he carried Reed out of the line of fire, then run away himself.

KISS-simple as it was, chances always were something screwy could happen. He hoped that not while they were there.

The first four shots went straight to the Hardsuit's possible vulnerable spots- the helmets, the weapon gauntlets, the backpacks –and saw mixed results. The Blue Saber's gauntlet was thrown off course, and apparently now had a feeding problem. The Green Saber's helmet now had a large dent on its "face", while the White Saber kept her flight jets undeployed from the shot to the back.

He missed the freakin' pink one, and now she seemed to be talking to the black one. With that damned bazooka strapped to him, he didn't wanted to be in his sights.

Oh, shit, he was aiming at him. So much for the KISS approach.

"Fuck", he said, dropping the Widowmaker. It had done its job, and now he couldn't use it. He stood up and ran to the back of the rooftop, towards the rappel line he had hooked there.

On his radio, he could hear Grey say:

"¡¡¡GET OUTTA THERE, MAN!!!", over the far-away "¡Whoosh!" of the bazooka.

The damned explosion came too early, throwing him off the building. The rappel line had been wrapped around his hand at the moment, and it was the only thing that kept him from falling 10 stories. But it was now biting into his hand, trying to cut it in half.

"¡Fuck-damnit! ¡Whoever thinks this is some Hollywood shit, I'll KILL him!", he muttered, before saying into the radio, "¡Shard, status!", as he untangled himself.

"¡Evac complete! ¡Get outta there!"

"Good idea, Napoleon", Roger muttered, before hooking himself to the line. The rappel went smoothly after that.

"¡Incoming KS on your position, L.T.! ¡Six and three!", Grey said.

"¡Clear the smaller group!", Roger hollered, going for his other primary. The KS were already in his view, converging on the small alley he was rappelling into. No time to go with finesse, or retreat, or surrender.

He pulled out his other weapon, a Tsunami Arms 437 Gatling Assault Rifle, and opened fire. The 12.5mm MDC ammo was capable of punching right thru the toughest combat armors a BGC universe could throw- this Roger knew from personal experience -, and at the cyclic rate of 1100 rounds per minute, the TSA-437 could deal an ungodly amount of damage in a normal, non-MDC-alloy-equipped environment. He expected them to dive the hell outta the way after the first or second scrape. Or at least, he prayed so. Extreme prejudices weren't hunting licenses, no matter why the Offices authorized them.

They did. Roger let go of the rappel line and dropped the 10 or so feet that remained to the ground, and at that moment, Grey opened fire himself. His weapon of choice for the mission- the TSA 240 "Lucifer"–was a heavy weapon, a full-auto grenade launcher/machine gun combination, capable of some really massive destruction. Like Roger, he was only firing to confuse, filling the air with lead, keeping their heads down.

"¡MOVE IT!", Grey yelled over the chaos. Roger obeyed and ran, followed by Shard.

"¿Mission accomplished?", Roger asked to Grey as they ran.

"Give me two more minutes, and we'll talk about it.", Grey said tiredly. The Sabers gave a really wild pursuit, weapons firing like mad, thrusters at full power.

The vehicle chosen for this operation was a

The portal opened, throwing all three men- or two men and a cyborg –straight in the middle of the room. Out of those three, only the client groaned.

"¿Is this your usual way to evac?", Reed asked of the other two.

"Nope. This is our VIP-treatment evac. –Roger said- Don't worry. They wouldn't find you, even if they wanted to."

"Good.- Reed said, looking around- So, ¿where are we?"

"Little penthouse in Asgard's corporate sector. Don't mind the arcologies out there. There's nothing important in them."

"¿Arcologies?", Reed said, looking out the window. He was immediately rewarded with a view.

The Arcologies of the Earth and Goddess Relief Offices looked like two huge, two-mile-tall trees, with their tops entwined together. They certainly made the Genom-like arcology in front of them look like a dwarf.

"¿That's the Asgard corpo sector?- Reed asked –They certainly didn't made it look like this on "¡Oh, My Goddess!"

"That's because the creator got it all wrong.", another voice said from the shadows. It was one of a woman, calm and collected, and one Reed has heard a minute ago. He noted that the voice came from a silhouette of a woman who was sitting.

"¿Could you please leave us?", she asked of Roger and Grey.

"No prob.", Roger said, walking outside. Grey followed, closing the doors behind him.

"So, you're Craig Alan Reed, Jr.- the voice said –It's a pleasure to meet you at last, even if you think not."

"So-¡ahem!-¿who are you, miss?", Reed asked, feeling nervous.

"I'm just the employer of the man you saw go out. Not the cyborg, just the man.- she said –It's a strange thing to believe that once he was almost like you, in a sense."

Just then, the silhouette moved, never standing from where it was resting. Reed could hear a light humming as it moved.

And then, into the light came a woman that Reed could both admire and fear. The leader of the very group that, a minute ago, had been trying to kill him, of course he could note that it wasn't the one who had lead the squad.

Right in front of Reed was Sylia Stingray. Only this version was confined to a wheelchair that, like its owner, was very luxurious.

"Wh-wh-wh-", Reed started to say, stunned.

" 'What is going on', I guess you wanna ask?", Sylia said, "Let's just say that not all Knight Sabers hold the same hostility for you, Mr. Reed. Even if it is justified."

She rolled a little bit closer, which was the only moment Reed noted that it was an electric wheelchair.

"Please, sit down. We have much to talk about.", she said in that same business-like voice she used for people like Fargo. Reed did so, without the slightest counter on his part.

"What the hell do you think that they must be talking about right now?", Roger asked, looking at the door.

"Beats me. Do you wanna go and find out?", Grey said.

They both had been sitting in front of the door for the past half hour, trying to kill time. They weren't exactly successful, to say the least.

"Hell no. Last time I tried to walk into a talk of hers, she shot me then and there. Good thing I was wearing armor."

"What was the author she was talking to at that time?", Grey asked.

"Damned if I know. Only thing I renember is that she wanted the weak points of something called the "Krauser Boomer"."

"Do you think that she was in her 'other Sylia' mode or something?", Shard said.

"It's not like her hair turns pastel. The only warning I got was the clicking of the hammer."

Right in that moment, the door of the room opened wide, and out of it walked Reed. He looked very nervous about something, looking over his shoulder at Sylia every other second, and shaking wildly. He almost didn't noticed his collision course with Roger.

"What up?", Grey asked, making Reed shout and look at him. Poor man looked like he was going to drop dead.

He looked at Shard, then at Roger, then at Sylia, and then back at Roger before asking him:

"How the hell do you manage to stand her?"

Roger just shrugged and said:

"It's my life. Deal with it."

Grey noted that Sylia's clothes were in an unnatural disarray, with a couple of tears here and there. The couch, as well, was a little out of place. He made a note to tell that to Roger once they were clear.

"So, Mr. Reed- Grey said –You ready to go back?"

"Aren't they gonna be there, waiting for me?", Reed asked in the same voice.

"We'll put you in another town, and give you enough money to live for a week or two away from them. Take it as an Author Protection Program.", Grey said, reaching into the hidden space "and if anything fails…"

He threw something at Reed, which he catched. It was a dark brown cell phone, of the kind that were used in "The Matrix".

"…just give us a call, all right?", Grey said.

Timeframes at Asgard were very different from any other place. Being at the very center of the universe meant that its timeframes were constantly changing, and that an inter-dimensional trip could last anything in Asgardian time, from a second to a year, at the most, no matter how long you stayed out there.

As such, actually, it also meant that every single neighborhood had its own times. It could be, at this very moment, both high noon in the eastern burbs of Asgard, and midnight in the shanty towns. It took a long while for one to get used to it, especially newcomers.

The building that Reed had been into was using the timeframe of the 2033 MegaTokyo as its own, and as such, if it was night in 2033, it was night there.

And, like many other nights where there was nothing else to do, Sylia Stingray was taking a swim in her private pool, trying to relax.

It was almost impossible to believe that the young woman that was going from one side to another of the pool like a dolphin at this moment, had been confined to a high-tech wheelchair an hour ago. But like most other things at the literal center of the universe, this was nothing bizarre for those who lived there.

Sylia stopped at one side of the pool, trying to catch her breath after a long while swimming. This was the thing she liked more about not being confined to that chair for more than a few hours at a time: it made her enjoy more the freedom that just being able to walk could give her. She could manage to understand herself- and her alternates -a little better that those super-coldhearted Sylias could, even with their enhanced brains.

Of course, when either of her other two 'modes' triggered, she could feel a lot of other things: the confusion the 'other' Sylia felt at times, and the sheer ecstasy of the 'new' Sylia. She sometimes just lost herself into them, like it was a drug.

She heard somebody clearing his throat, and she looked up. At that time, the 'other' Sylia took over, and she almost swooned. Roger was there, seeing if she was okay. No questions on his side. He just looked at her.

"I'm fine, thanks- she said –How'd you get in here?"

"Mackey let me in."

"Mackie?"

"MackEY.", Roger said, making an emphasis in the last part.

"Oh, him.- Sylia said –Okay, I suppose. But he knows that I don't like people to come when I'm swimming."

"I told him that you ordered me to come. Saber business. He understood that quite well, I think."

Sylia frowned. "I better talk to him later. Mackie knows already that you're not a Saber."

"He knows that because he was there when I signed. How long was that?", Roger said.

"Three years the next week.", Sylia said amused. So much non-Sylia-like.

"Oh. Okay. – Roger said –If you wanted so much to not be like that other Stingray, why did you went on and adopted an alternate of her brother? It's been-what-two months, and you still confuse their names and all."

"I did that because I thought it was the right thing to do, all right? Why do you go out and ask me something like that?", Sylia said, almost yelling.

"Just making sure that I was talking to the right Sylia.", Roger said, turning around and walking away "I'll be at the living room, if you still wanna talk."

Sylia looked as Roger walked inside, then huffed and submerged for a second. /Damned jerk always gets the worst out of me, dammit-she thought-Why? Maybe because..?/

She thought on for another minute before thinking. /Naah./

She got out of the pool and walked inside, noting dully that Roger was sitting by the main table, cleaning that rifle-like minigun he packed for the mission. Those things, the Mega-Damage weapons, had kept amusing her from day one. But, of course, she couldn't bring to use them herself. It only took one shot of those from any of the Sabers to have all the corpos of the world hunting them down, and with Genom they had more than enough.

"So, what did you told Reed?", Roger asked.

"Not a lot. I just mentioned a list of things we would like him to rewrite, and that he should look out for in the future.", she replied innocently, even almost shrugging.

"Yeah, and you scared him shitless. He kept looking at you like you were going to become a monster and jump on him at any second.", Roger said "What did you do to him?"

"Not a lot. I just showed him my 'super' form for a moment. That convinced him."

"Yeah. That he was talking to Devilman Lady 2033, most likely.", Roger said. He put down the Tsunami rifle, and looked into her eyes before saying: "You enjoy that, don't you? The power, the knowledge, everything?"

Sylia just answered by smiling at him, and then closing her eyes. Her body, almost immediately, started to change. She became taller, more muscular, the damn swimsuit becoming bigger as well in response. Her skin became darker, the dark bronze color of a very deep tan. She opened her eyes- irises now flecked with bronze -and grinned at him, showing a few fangs.

"Do I look like Devilman Lady to you?", she asked with a slightly sultry, low voice. Roger wasn't going to tell her the apparent truth- that all she needed right now was to be drawn by Go Nagai -, and just said:

"Well, not to me, you're not. But in a dark room, talking to a man that you don't like a lot, and using the looks and the strength as intimidation tools, maybe you would.- Roger noted her questioning look –Grey told me about it."

She turned back into her 'normal' form, and then walked at him. Her arms went around him and her head rested on top of his. This kind of attitude was normal to only two other girls that Roger had met… both of them looking the same.

"¿Don't you know that that surgery has made you look gorgeous, like that detective?", she said in a sultrier voice.

"And now you're acting like the 'other' Sylia, Stingray.", Roger informed in a gruff voice. She let go of him slowly.

"Why are you dodging this? Look, I went and saved Reed, as the Offices ordered, and then brought him here, as **you **ordered. Now, all I want to know is why did you had to go for on and scare him shitless."

"Because I thought that it would be necessary- she answered slowly, then added –You don't know how it's like. It's like a drug for me, this ability. One moment I'm good old Stingray, and the other- Wham! –I can do things I could only do with my Hardsuit, and another I don't have this inhibitions I use to show. I'm just itching for the right moment to use them."

Roger was silent for a moment, then said:

"Maybe you've been here too long.", picking up his gear.

She looked at him, as he stood up and walked to the door.

"And maybe when you can give me a less philosophical answer, I'll come and listen to it.", he said, opening the door.

"Where are you going?"

"Home. – Roger said –I'm falling behind on my quota of nightmares."

_Last part: House._

Roger opened the door to his apartment by means of a cardkey, and it hissed right out of the way, letting him in.

At this moment, the only thing Roger could think about was the possibility to drop on the couch and try, hardly, to go back to sleep. Last night's sleep had barely lasted a few minutes, and he had been up and about for another day before that, making recons and missions for a lot of people.

Everytime he dared close his eyes, though, he always had the same "dream". Her murder was definitely going to be with him until he couldn't take it. Hell, he couldn't take it back then, now was out of the question.

But, of course, even if the idea of suicide passed thru his head now, there wouldn't be any chances of him pulling it off.

One of the reasons why walked out of the bedroom, yawning and stretching like a cat. She rubbed off some sleep from her eyes, and noted Roger.

"Hi", she said with a yawn.

"Hi.- Roger said -¿Been up lately?" He sat.

"The coach's training is becoming crazier. He had us out-swimming a bunch of torpedoes today."

"¿Water polo again?", Roger asked. He noted the bruises and shallow cuts on her body. "¿Was it bad?"

"He seems to forget that my teammates are out of my league. I had to freakin' save them a few times, and I got hurt a lot. Seems that's what he was planning to make me tougher, the damned bastard.", she muttered.

"¿Do you want me to whack him?", Roger asked. She noted the dead serious look on his face, the almost reflexive tightening of his fist. She had to stop him before he stood…

"¡No, no, it doesn't matter!- she said rapidly, shaking her hands – It doesn't anymore. I'm healing all right, and now it would take more than a torpedo to hurt me. It's all right."

"¿And what about your teammates?", Roger asked, the seriousness never leaving. She gulped.

"The torpedoes were set to chase the nearest moving object, so I just swam between them and my friends.", she said in a hurry. Roger seemed to relax.

"Girl, that coach wouldn't do something as stupid as to set them on motion following. – he looked at her –And it's not like you to go and do some comic book stunt like that. A little too self-sacrificing."

"But, all right, you don't want me to go on and hurt him. I won't.", Roger said finally.

She grinned "Thanks."

"You're welcome. Now, ¿how's it been so far, anyway? ¿How's the other girls like?"

"Well, there's this girl called…"

A pair of hours later, the department block was dark, and everybody in it was either working at some other block that was on a day time, or was asleep, or was locked up in their apartments doing whatever they felt like.

Roger was one of the latter.

He was standing at the door of his roommate's bedroom, looking at her sleeping peacefully, the mask that he had made his face into somewhat softened.

Roger just couldn't believe that this girl liked him. Once- a world afar and a lifetime away –he would have believed that she wouldn't like anyone that wasn't like her. Hell, he was once even open to believe that she was a lesbian.

It was, even now still, pretty damned hard to buy that he shared his apartment with a system-renown athlete like her.

He turned around and walked to the living room, quietly and stealthily. Anybody who would have been looking inside the apartment would have not seen him in the shadows.

The living room, like the rest of the apartment, was a stark contrast between spartan and chaotic, boxes and stuff strewn at small random spots over a large barren room. The really clean area of it was the table in the middle, on which the small computer now stood at the ready, a solid box of black. Some distance away, a flat-screen TV was on and muted, showing scenes of some recent riot.

"Computer awake. Open comm. Romanova, Nene.", Roger said.

The computer beeped, and the tiny screen turned on, showing a youthful, almost jailbait-looking redhead.

"¿Yeah?", she said, before noting who the caller was. "¿Hackett? ¿Why are you calling at this hour?"

"I needed to ask you a favor, kid.- Roger said –I need you to hack into the files of the University…"

"Hey, hey, hey, hey- Nene said, hands in front of her -¿Renember that rule we have? ¿No personal info-gathering?"

"I would, if I cared about it. I'm not asking for anything Saber-like, anyway. I'm just asking you to get into the files of the University Satellite, Battle Athletes AltVerse 228853-8, and check the admin notes of the people in Room 007. I'm interested in anything that Miracle guy would have written yesterday."

"¿Get in the University Satellite computer?"

"AltVerse 228853-8.", Roger repeated.

"¿And check for any notes by "Mr. Miracle" dating yesterday?", Nene asked.

"Especially about the performance of Team 007", Roger ended.

"¿That girlfriend of yours got beat up again?", Nene asked with a smile. Roger just stared at her and growled, a low one that sounded like a tiger's.

"¿And if I find them, what then?", she asked.

"Change them to something else. Anything a little better that that asshole's writing. You're the one who changes her own work performance notes. You're good at it.", Roger said.

"Got it.- Nene said, then added -¿How'd you know that I was gonna be up, anyway?"

Roger just reached for the nearby TV remote, and pressed the "Mute" button. The TV's speakers came on with:

"---Another Boomer catastrophe has been averted by the Knight Sabers tonight, after several hours of negotiation by-"

Roger pressed "Mute" again, and grinned at the redhead in the video screen.

"Get on it fast, please.", Roger said, massaging his temples.

"Got it. – she said, before adding cheerfully -¡See ya!" and signing off.

Roger just huffed and looked out the window for a moment, watching out the window, at the Asgardian skyline.

At night, it was full of lights and motion, the twin, entwined trees of the Offices glowing with the lights of a million searchlights, blotting out the dark skies and the stars beyond. The other buildings around it helped, as well.

"Damn.", he said, before ordering: "¡Shutters down!", and making the sight disappear behind motorized, armored shutters.

"Gibson was right.- Roger said in the dark- It DOES look like a TV on a dead channel."

¡First chapter ended! ¿How'd it looked? ¡Read and review!


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